An Urgent Intervention
by tartan-angel
Summary: Everybody has their vices. In this story, our beloved Hogwarts professors attempt  unwillingly  to rectify theirs. How will it turn out? Will it work for any of them? Blame Minerva for the rating change.
1. Albus Dumbledore

_A/N: I don't own Harry Potter, or Dan Brown, or the concept of "the intervention"… so… yeah… not mine… I'm on borrowed time… 'My Life is For Rent' and all that… I don't own Dido either… Anyway… ONWARDS!_

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><p>It was with weary legs that Albus Dumbledore walked towards the Great Hall. He took apprehensive steps, absent-mindedly watching the spots of sunlight skittering around the floor. The gleaming double doors loomed before him. At the sight of them, his face dropped to a darkened, disheartened frown.<p>

What had gotten him into this stupor?

Just an hour earlier, he had embarked on his regular Saturday evening walk around the school perimeter. All had been normal until, unexpectedly, his cohort and right-hand woman, Minerva McGonagall, literally sprang out of the ground (well… a Headmaster must be afforded _some_ artistic license).

"Thank goodness, Albus, I have been looking for you absolutely everywhere! Since when was 'errand girl' in my job description?" Albus had just begun to open his mouth to retort when she stopped him. "Don't answer that. Anyway, I was sent to give you this." And without further ado, she was gone once more in a flurry of vibrant emerald green.

Albus opened the hand in which Minerva had placed a small slip of bright red parchment. On it was nothing more than a short sentence - if it could be called that… it was more like a string of words.

_Great Hall, tonight, nine._

Despite this being so cryptic that not even that Muggle author Dan Brown could figure it out (Albus's words, not mine), Albus reasoned that he must be expected at the Great Hall at nine o'clock.

"Good Lord, that's only an hour away!" he muttered to himself; he would never have time to put his - ahem - colourful robe collection to good use!

So now, he traipsed through the corridor in his 'dreary' purple and green robes, an unopened packet of lemon drops weighing heavily in his pocket. Actually, now would be the perfect time for a sweet. As he popped one of the bittersweet lozenges into his mouth, he forced the double doors open and almost choked on his lemon drop.

Stretching from one side of the hall to another was a long yellow banner with the words 'An Urgent Intervention' tattooed across it. Underneath the banner, his fellow colleagues were stood in a straight line, each wearing the most morose expression and holding different-coloured cards in their hands.

"What in Merlin's name is going on here?" Albus asked in astonishment.

"Albus," Minerva stepped forward from the line, "this is an intervention."

_An_ _intervention_? He had seen these before. He had organised one of these before. What could he possibly have done wrong? Interventions were only held if a member of staff was getting dangerously obsessed with something. What was his obsession?

"Why do I need an intervention?" he asked with a mouthful of lemon drop.

Each staff member looked reluctant to answer, casting their eyes around anything but their employer. Finally, Gryffindor bravery won the day; Minerva answered.

"Lemon drops."

"Excuse me?" he stuttered with his usually sparkling blue eyes wide open and devoid of the knowing glint that resided there normally.

"Apart from your taste in the most head-splittingly garish robes in the world, they have become your worst habit," Minerva said rather too quickly for fear that Albus might break down in tears or something of equal or greater ridiculousness. He looked devastated.

"They smell awful," Rolanda Hooch added, a wicked smile on her face.

"And they are rotting your teeth," said Poppy Pomfrey, the courage of her fellow colleagues obviously spurring her on and encouraging her to present her medical concerns for the Headmaster, who looked as though he were on the verge of a mental breakdown. Or worse.

"You eat them all the time; when you're excited, when you're sad, when you're hungry…" chimed in Filius Flitwick.

"When you're angry, when you can't sleep," added Pomona Sprout, who was rather given to finishing the Charms Professor's sentences. Pretty soon, the entire staff body were beginning to air their grievances over the lemony treats that were never out of the Headmaster's reach.

"Honeydukes are getting fed up of ordering them in for you."

"They're really sour! Have you ever actually tried one of those things?"

"Of course he has," Severus Snape said drolly, "that's exactly why we're here."

"You offer them to everybody…"

"Usually several times in the same conversation."

"You threw one at me the other day." Everybody turned towards Professor McGonagall, who was wearing a strangely out of character pout.

Albus Dumbledore was shell-shocked to say the least. Until now he had been unable to respond to his staff's onslaught of lemon drop abuse. When he spoke, it was with an undertone that made even Severus shudder.

"Fine. I will abstain from lemon drops for one month. But you mark my words, all of you; there will be consequences for this!"

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><p><em>AN: So, which Professor would you like to see getting the intervention treatment next?_


	2. Minerva McGonagall

_A/N: Okay, ideas gathered. I decided to go with this one next so that I can weave in a little bit of sub-plot for you lovely people._

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><p>Weasleys.<p>

The bane of her life.

Who would have thought that Molly and Arthur, the two most lovely, wholesome, well-meaning people she had ever met, could spawn beings so intent on causing as much devastation as humanly possible. Of course, Ronald was shaping up nicely, and Bill and Charlie had been exemplary. Little Ginny was now allowing her true Gryffindor to emerge and Percy… well… the less said about Percy the better, but at least he had tried to avoid trouble.

But the twins…

Minerva McGonagall suppressed a shudder as she thought back to their last trick, which she now called Death in the Teapot. Generally, she would silently applaud Fred and George Weasley for their ingenuity and sheer guts. However, when their pranks were played on her, it was a completely different story. It was hypocritical, she knew, but that did not mean she was not allowed to think it.

She felt her shoulders relax considerably as she reached a hand out towards the handle of her office door. Just a few more steps and she would be able to throw herself at her bed and forget everything that had happened throughout the day (particularly the teapot).

As the door opened, Minerva felt as though something has changed. Her Animagus form had luckily provided her with a superior sense for when things were out of place, not to mention the enhanced hearing. With more hesitance than she would usually afford to the simple task of opening a door, she pushed inside.

She almost fainted.

_Almost_.

Hanging drearily above her desk was a vast sign painted with the words '_AN_ _URGENT_ _INTERVENTION'_ in cold grey lettering. Every one of her colleagues was gathered beneath it.

"No. You are not doing this to me," she barked.

"I am afraid we are, Minerva," said Albus Dumbledore in his maddeningly, infuriatingly cheerful voice. "You see, I discovered who set up the intervention that was held in my honour."

"Enlighten me," Minerva replied, wearing her best poker face. She had arranged it just to get rid of those awful lemon drops, even if it would last only a month.

"Well, I think we all know who it was since we are standing in _your _office. I did tell you I would get revenge."

"Come on, then! Let's get this over with! What has me so obsessed that it has become a concern to my friends and colleagues?" It was the wrong question to ask, she was aware, but if they did not start soon, she feared she may not be responsible for her actions.

"Tartan."

"What?"

"Tartan," Albus said simply. "Almost everything you own is tartan." Minerva was about to prove the ludicrousness of this statement when another voice broke from the crowd.

"It's not even your family tartan; it's just varying kinds of awful, awful tartan…"

"Even your biscuit tin is tartan," shouted Filius Flitwick, hoping to hide behind Pomona Sprout, "which is just weird."

Poppy Pomfrey, her childhood friend, even joined in the attack. "You don't have to parade the fact that you're Scottish, you know. We can all tell."

"It's not exactly something to be proud of, either," added Severus acerbically.

"Wearing tartan does not make you Braveheart."

"Or the Queen of Scotland."

"People are even speculating over whether you wear tartan underwear."

Rolanda Hooch looked to the sky as if remembering a fond childhood story. "The other day, someone even asked if, when you were a baby, an evil witch cursed you to wear tartan for the rest of your life. I said 'yes', of course."

And the onslaught kept coming. Minerva was going to kill Albus.

When the staff had paused for breath – and, inevitably, to think of more tartan-related insults – Minerva took her opportunity to shout back at them.

"Unless you plan on finding out the precise colour of my underwear, I suggest you all leave now so that I can shower in peace."

The staff began to filter out dejectedly to finally leave her alone. She would easily make one month without tartan; it's not like she needed it to breathe or anything. It was not for another few moments that she realised there was still somebody in her office. Albus Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off quickly:

"No, Albus, you cannot stay to watch!"


	3. Filius Flitwick

_A/N: I am unutterably sorry for the delay but Filius gave me a bit of trouble with this one. It seems that he really did not want an intervention._

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><p>He was much cleverer than that.<p>

Filius Flitwick prided himself on being a born Ravenclaw and, as Head of the noble House of Rowena Ravenclaw, he prized his own intelligence over any of his earthly possessions. So, when he had received a note telling him to come to the Great Hall, Filius had decided to head in the opposite direction. After the recent spates of Interventions, he had decided that he would not be the next unwilling victim. He went to his refuge; the staffroom. A warm, cosy fire and an engaging new book would be faithfully waiting for him as usual and he would avoid an intervention.

The heavy wooden door was opened slowly as Filius struggled against the weight of it (the many books already in his arms made it impossible for him to reach for his wand). As soon as the he stepped over the threshold, Filius Flitwick was certain something was wrong.

It was dark. The fire was not happily burning away behind the grate. The air was not polluted by a tense argument between Severus and Minerva.

Something was definitely not right.

He turned, ready to leave once more; if something was about to 'go down' – as the children say these days – he did not want to be present for it. Then, just as his feet reached the door, it slammed shut in front of him. A deafening boom rang out from somewhere near the window. Every sense was screaming at him to leave now. Get out and do not turn around. But the door was stuck.

There was the tell-tale unfurling of heavy fabric, a banner no doubt, and the little wizard let out a deep sigh.

The weasels had called his bluff.

"Happy intervention, Filius," the deep voice of Rolanda Hooch called out in a strangely cheerful jeer.

"You people will be the death of me," Filius replied solemnly, finally turning to meet the eyes of his gathered colleagues.

"That's what we're aiming for," grumbled Severus. Filius was probably a tad too happy that Severus received a sharp elbow to the ribs from a trying-desperately-not-to-smile Minerva McGonagall.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, my friends?" He hoped that the inflection he placed upon 'my friends' was enough to inflict a never-ceasing guilt upon each of them.

"Books, my dear Filius!" Albus Dumbledore was smiling his usual jovial smile. _Crazy old coot._

"Give up the stack of books, Filius." It took him a while to realise that the stack they were referring to was the stack that he used to see over his considerably high desk.

"They're dangerous, Filius."

"You almost squashed a Firstie with them!" Listening to his colleagues' – his friends' – onslaught, Filius decided that he would not be going down without a fight. _That's right, Filius, _he thought, _win them over with common sense._

"But I need them to see over my desk."

"Now, now, Filius! We all know that that is not strictly true." The smirk on Minerva's face told Filius that he was about to get bested. "I charmed a chair for you to dip to the floor when you need to get on or off and then raise itself to the height of your desk."

Filius repressed a shudder as he remembered that particular piece of furniture. Oh, it had been comfortable enough, but the looks the students gave him were just humiliating.

"Well, if you didn't give me such an abnormally high desk, I would not need them!"

"But it's not just sitting on them! It's hard to get a decent word out of you most times because you won't take your nose out of the pages!" chortled Pomona Sprout, evidently enjoying this torture more than she should have.

"Irma is fed up of you taking up that entire section of the library."

Irma grunted loudly, reluctant to actually use words to show her agreement with Poppy Pomfrey's statement.

"I do not read that much!" Filius squeaked. It was a vain attempt to get them to stop, he knew.

"Filius," began Aurora Sinistra in a voice that made it sound almost as if she were concerned for him. "Look in your hands."

"And I bet more than one of them is a soppy romance novel."

He wanted to protest, to shout 'I will have you know that I read no such thing!' but all he could manage was a disbelieving whimper.

"You… you're banning me from books?"

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><p>The next day was a surprisingly warm Saturday in the Scottish Highlands and the staffroom was empty but for the Headmaster and his Deputy. Only a few days before, they had each bet that the other would not stick to their forced intervention for a month. Therefore, Albus had removed every trace of tartan from Minerva's room and she, in return, had taken away every lemon drop in his possession and had cut off all communications with Honeydukes.<p>

As they sat next to each other on the over-stuffed sofa, the silence between them was peppered with their anger.

Albus turned purposely to bring Minerva's attention to his resplendent red tartan robes. She sighed and uncrossed her arms, which had been folded tightly across her chest.

A small smirk played upon her face as she plucked from her pocket a single citrus yellow lozenge. The smell drifted like heaven to Albus's nostrils. His eyes were stuck to the perfect little sweet. _Oh, Merlin, this was going to drive him crazy before the month was over._ But, as if that was not enough, he felt compelled to watch as Minerva raised the lemon drop to her lips.

She looked straight at him from under a hood of thick black eyelashes and bit her lower lip lightly. _What on earth was she doing? _Then, slowly, so painfully slowly, her tongue started to caress the lemon drop, rolling so smoothly along its citrusy surface.

_Oh, Merlin._

It was so close to her mouth. Nimble fingers pushed the sweet further into her mouth and she began… _Oh, Merlin, was that Minerva McGonagall sucking seductively on a lemon drop? _Albus needed to leave. He needed to get up and run right now because she sure as hell was not going to stop. And she was still gazing into his eyes. She knew what she was doing. _Did she just… moan?_

Yet, Albus still could not pull his eyes away, even as hers squeezed shut.

However, when they reopened, her eyes were not fixed upon Albus. They widened and she ceased her teasing, pushing the lemon drop fully into her mouth and saying, as if they had just been having a normal conversation:

"Wait, here comes Filius."

Both Minerva and Albus flipped books in front of their faces, each pretending to read the words upon the pages. They watched as the diminutive wizard swept past them, sweat pouring from his forehead, his hands trembling visibly.

"He'll break soon".

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><p><em>AN: I think I may have to make this story a T now, thanks to Minerva._


	4. Rolanda Hooch

_A/N: Here I am, once again apologising for lack of updates on my stories. I hope you'll forgive me._

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><p>The breeze was brisk on her skin as Rolanda Hooch soared through the autumn air above the Quidditch pitch. After a long day of teaching, a nice long flight was exactly what she needed (even if she had already spent most of her day on a broomstick). It was her go-to cure, after all.<p>

After another hour, Rolanda felt the first trickles of rain sting the skin of her neck as they advanced towards her collar. Reluctantly, she swooped towards the ground and dismounted her broom, slinging it haphazardly over her shoulder. Her footsteps made thick sloshing sounds as the rain reached something near storm-level. Rolanda hurtled towards safety of the changing rooms.

As the dimming sun flooded into the changing rooms, Rolanda dropped her broomstick. Her colleagues were all gathered before her. _Damn it._

"Bring it on," Rolanda announced, spreading her hands wide in a gesture of what she thought to be bravery. If they were taking something away from her, she would not go down without a fight. "I have absolutely no crazy obsessions that you can take away from me. Throw all you've got at me."

"Broomsticks," Albus said. That single word was enough to place a lead weight in the pit of Rolanda's stomach.

"It gives way for too many 'riding' innuendoes," squeaked Pomona Sprout, sounding much more like Filius than she had intended.

"I'm concerned for your social life; brooms seem to be the only thing you're riding," Minerva said without a hint of joking about her lightly-accented voice.

"See what I mean?" Pomona sighed exasperatedly, clapping her hands to her forehead.

"I would like to point out to you all that I ride broomsticks for _a_ _job_." _This is it, _Rolanda thought, _I've got them now._

"We know." Having prepared herself to leave in a blaze of glory, broom held triumphantly aloft, Rolanda was understandably shocked by the curt reply issued – in a rather impressive unison – by several of her colleagues.

"But then you fly in _all _your free time," Severus replied curtly, glancing with disdain at the bright scarlet furnishings.

"I do not!"

"When was the last time you accompanied us to The Three Broomsticks?" Albus asked. _Damn the man and his annoy-everybody-then-get-out-of-it-because-those-stupid-blue-eyes-twinkle-and-Minerva-gives-in-because-she's-a-softy-for-children-and-let's-face-it-Albus-is-not-always-the-most-mature ways!_

"That's an unfair question!" The sweet taste of victory was slipping from Rolanda's tongue as she realised she was losing the war.

"Rosmerta thought you had died," Minerva said, her face fixed in a perfectly matter-of-fact way. If Rolanda were not so terrified for what may happen, she would have laughed.

"You used to spend enough there to keep her afloat."

"So you would rather I was an alcoholic than a broom enthusiast? Well, _that's_ logical!" Rolanda crossed her arms sulkily, not caring that she now looked like a stubborn child who has been refused their favourite treat.

"You are not an enthusiast, you are obsessive!" Sybil Trelawney snapped unusually brusquely, far from the flower-child airiness she generally emitted.

"I am NOT. Tell them, Filius." Unfortunately, Professor Flitwick, still suffering from the ban from his precious books, could not formulate an adequate reply. Rolanda sighed, sinking down to the wooden bench as her knees buckled with the realisation of what she was to lose for a month.

"No broomsticks outside of teaching hours for a month, Rolanda." Albus's words sent a chill down her spine and planted a seed of anger in her mind. This matter did not end here.


End file.
